


A Satisfactory Alternative

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to pay his blackmailer, Hastings is tricked into stealing, and he is remarkably good at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Satisfactory Alternative

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: I was discussing "Charles Augustus Milverton"/"The Master Blackmailer" with a friend of mine and my theory that Holmes acted weird because he was being blackmailed by Milverton. This got me to thinking about Poirot and blackmail stories. I can't imagine Poirot being blackmailed for anything, but I could see Hastings behaving indiscreetly (and he looks so handsome when he panics). And so this AU was born.  
> Note 2: This is not related to any of my other stories.  
> Note 3: This is also an experiment in 3rd person narrative. Hastings does switch to give background information in _The ABC Murders_.  
>  Note 4: A big thanks to Nemo_Neminem for correcting my French.

_"Poirot," I said, as he remained wrapt in thought, "hadn't we better go on? Everyone is staring at us."_

 _"Eh? Well, perhaps you are right. Though it does not incommode me that people should stare. It does not interfere in the least with my train of thought."_

 _"People were beginning to laugh," I murmured._

 _"That has no importance."_

 _I did not quite agree. I have a horror of doing anything conspicuous._

Chapter 10, _Lord Edgeware Dies_

 

It was never my custom to engage in unnecessary liaisons, but sometimes I yearned for the embrace of another – and for the passion and quiet peace afterward. For me the most rewarding embrace came from a man. There was one whom I yearned for, my associate Hercule Poirot, but I feared saying anything. He was so pristine, so neat and untouchable, and I felt dowdy sometimes when comparing myself to him. He was also a firm believer in the law and justice, and what I wished from him was highly illegal and immoral.

On occasion I would find a like-minded young man with whom I could while away the evening in comfortable companionship. I did not risk this often because I wished to avoid a scandal, which would hurt not only myself but my friends, Poirot, Ms. Lemon, even Inspector Japp. In the Argentine I could engage more freely, but I found that I lacked the interest. I enjoyed more than just the physical act, and those used to casual liaisons were not so indulgent.

My fear of scandal was justified when I received a letter while at Poirot's flat. Despite no longer living with him, I spent a great deal of time in his company. My own flat was mostly undecorated; I felt uninspired to do more than sleep there. I preferred Poirot's comfortable flat because it was full of life, excitement, and my friend's presence. Because I spent much of my time in Poirot's flat, I often received mail at his address.

Ms. Lemon was sorting the letters which had arrived by the afternoon post. She said, "Here's one for you, Captain Hastings." She handed me the letter, and I thanked her. She was giving Poirot's letters to him as I opened the letter, and fortunately her back was turned and Poirot's attention was on her rather than on me. I removed the folded paper from the envelope and out fell a photograph face down onto the carpet. I picked it up, and was shocked by what I saw.

The photograph showed me and a young man of my acquaintance, Robert. I had no idea how the picture could have been taken because, for obvious reasons, I would not have engaged in such behavior with a camera present. I had not yet read the letter, but I could guess what it said. I glanced over at Poirot and Ms. Lemon, and was relieved that they had taken no notice of my distraction.

"I say, Poirot," I said, after waiting for a break in their conversation. "I forgot that I have an appointment I mustn't miss. I must dash."

Poirot was obviously curious, but he waved me off. Ms. Lemon seemed to take it in stride that I would forget an appointment and gave me a look of disapproval.

 

I returned to my flat, a miserable little affair as I have already mentioned. I opened the letter, and it read thus:

Dear Captain Arthur Hastings,

I believe that we have a mutual friend in common, and it was he who gave me this photograph. I wish to speak with you about a business matter. Come to my flat at --- Street tomorrow night.

Wilbert Warren

I looked at the photograph, the horror of my position growing greater. Robert had given him this photograph? How had he taken it without my knowledge? I felt embarrassed that some stranger had seen me in such a state of dishabille. It was obvious what we were doing in the photo; it could not be explained away as a comfortable embrace or perhaps drunken revelry. I wondered how many of these photographs existed.

In the early evening I visited Robert at his flat. When I confronted him with the evidence, he shrugged it off, his glossy black hair shining in the lamplight.

"I had to give him something," he replied. "Warren is blackmailing me, too. He wanted money, and I had none."

"You sold me out?" I cried.

"What could I do, Arthur? I was in a bind." He came up to me and caressed my cheek with one hand. "You shouldn't be so trusting," he cooed.

I grabbed his wrist, angry at his selfishness and my stupidity. "How did you take these photographs?" I asked, my hand tightening.

He winced, and said, "I have a camera hidden, and a friend of mine takes them."

I was shocked. "Does he have copies, too?" I asked incredulously.

"No," Robert said, as if I had asked an unreasonable question. "He's only interested in the money."

I glared at him. "I want whatever pictures and negatives you have of me."

"I only had a couple of sets, and Warren took them."

I stood closer to him, using my height and build against his smaller frame. "Are you sure?" I said, gripping his shoulder tightly.

"Yes," he said, trying to wiggle from under my grasp, his moustache quivering angrily.

I let him go, and turned away.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

I glared at him once more, noting vaguely his handsomeness and the streak of casual cruelty in his dark eyes, and said, "I shan't return."

That was the last time I saw or heard from Robert. I could not forget his betrayal or the danger into which he put both me and my life with Poirot.

 

The next evening I went to Wilbert Warren's flat, taking care not to be seen by anyone. I knocked on the door, and it opened. Whoever had opened the door was standing directly behind it. I entered, and the door closed very quietly behind me.

Wilbert Warren was a man of medium height, squarish build, and possessed small eyes and thinning hair. He had the look of a snake oil salesman, and I disliked him immediately.

"Captain Hastings?" he said.

I nodded, and he laughed heartily. "I recognized you from the photographs."

I felt sickened by his words and the obvious relish with which he spoke. "I want them back," I said, desiring a more straightforward approach to this interview.

Warren clucked his tongue, and said, "I am afraid that I shall disappoint you… at least for the present. Your identity and the nature of your indiscretion mean that I cannot give up so fortuitous a gift."

I was unsure how to proceed. Warren delighted in my discomfort, and said mockingly, "Would you like to take a seat?"

"I would rather not," I said coldly.

"Suit yourself." He sat down in an armchair, leaving me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "I suppose you want to know why I asked you to come see me."

" 'Demanded', you mean," I said.

He shrugged. "It is all a matter of perspective, Captain Hastings. Now, from my perspective you have engaged in some disgusting liaisons, and as such you must pay for your misappropriated passions."

"I have done nothing wrong," I replied, barely able to look in his direction because I was so mortified. "Nothing that hurts anyone else."

He simply laughed. "What you think bears little on the matter, captain. I am interested in the money."

"I haven't got any money," I replied, the sting of that particular ancestral shame still sharp.

"I know, captain. I know." He smiled, and I knew that I would not like what I was about to hear. "However, you are capable of getting valuables. You are, after all, the associate of Hercule Poirot – trusted in people's homes – trusted by that great detective."

I gapped at him. "No," I said, scandalized. "No, I cannot betray a trust. It would ruin me if I were caught!"

"And being revealed as a filthy invert would not?" He sighed dramatically, and then said, "My dear captain, it is up to you. You can either be revealed to be a sodomite or chance being revealed as a thief. I'm sure you can do it, if your life and reputation are at stake. Surely you have learned some tricks during your time with Monsieur Poirot."

I felt panic built within me. He must have seen this because he added, "And it's not just your life and reputation. Think of those closest to you. The great detective – best friend of a sodomite. You even lived together for a time. How would that look to others? Do you think he would be tolerated long in this country with that sort of black mark? He would be deported, no doubt, back to Belgium. And I am sure you are aware that that area is not a safe place to live at the moment."

I closed my eyes, aware that I was defeated. "What do you want me to do?" I said, numb and cold.

"I shall give you instructions when I see something that I want. Of course, you may use your own initiative, if you should see anything that I might like. Jewels and gems are easier to hide and easier to sell. I'll leave how adventurous you wish to be up to you."

I nodded. The situation felt so unreal. Was I really being forced into a life of crime? I thought about asking for Poirot's help, but surely he would have no sympathy for my illegal activities, and once I agreed to this, once I had stolen my first gem, I would never be able to confide in him.

"Happy hunting," he replied, smiling viciously at me.

I left his flat. The night was warm, but I shivered in my coat.

 

The first opportunity presented itself within two weeks. I read about the Allan Rubies in the paper, and my instincts told me that these would be the target. I then received a telegram from Warren which instructed me to retrieve them.

Warren was right in that I had learned much from Poirot over the years. I knew that I should dress in clothes similar to what everyone else would be wearing so that I would not to draw attention to myself. I had gloves, a lock kit with which I had been practicing, a swiss army knife, and a few other odds and ends that I could hide about my person.

Ultimately fate aided me in my endeavor. Poirot received an invitation to attend the party during which the rubies would be presented to English society, and he invited me to accompany him.

Stealing the rubies was frightfully easy. While everyone else was busy congregating over brandy, I excused myself for a bit of fresh air. Instead of loitering in the garden, I snuck into the lady's bedroom, picked the lock on the jewelry case, put a few stones in their place so that the weight of the case would not give away its emptiness, and retreated back to the garden. The rubies I hid in an inner pocket. I then returned to Poirot's side, hopefully not looking as flushed or nervous as I felt.

The newspapers reported the robbery two days later. I was surprised that the theft had taken so long to be discovered, but I did not question my luck. Poirot was called in to assist, but whatever clues there might have been were lost by the delay.

I delivered the rubies to Warren a day later, and he was very pleased. "I knew you had it in you," he replied.

I did not visit Poirot for three days afterward because I feared that he would see my newly found criminal nature written across my face. I looked at myself in the mirror, but apart from the hints of sleeplessness I could see no cruelty or greed in my expression, just fear.

 

I committed two more thefts for Warren before circumstances forced me to reconsider my complacency. Poirot was confounded by the thefts, but he had deduced that they were committed by the same thief. At first I had assumed that I should continue to use stones because it worked to delay the discovery of the crime, but I was short-sighted because it also linked the crimes. I was debating what gimmick I should use next when my situation changed drastically.

Ms. Lemon let in Inspector Japp, who stalked angrily into the room. Rarely have I seen the inspector look so intense before, and I glanced at Poirot.

"Chief Inspector," Poirot said, by way of greeting.

"I need your help," Japp replied. "There's someone we've wanted to catch for a long time, but we didn't know his identity."

"Who is that?" Poirot asked, his gaze solemn.

"A blackmailer," Japp replied. I felt fear deep in my gut at his words, and my fear was confirmed when Japp said, "He's gone by different names, but we finally have some information on one of his nom de plumes – Warren – first name unknown."

"And how do you know this?" Poirot asked.

"Because one of his victims threw herself off a bridge into the Thames. In her flat she left behind a letter of explanation as well as one of his letters to her."

I was shocked by Japp's story, and I said without thinking, "Who was she?"

"Elizabeth Richards," he replied. "Young lady about to be married. The usual," he replied, addressing his last remark to Poirot, who nodded.

"What was the reason behind her blackmail?" Poirot asked, standing up from his desk. I stood up as well, unsure if I wished to pursue this matter. I worried that I would be unable to contain my emotions. Already I felt guilt for the poor young woman's death.

"Neither letter goes into detail, but hers refers to a 'youthful indiscretion'."

Poirot muttered some unhappy French.

The investigation was painful for me to endure, due in part to my guilt and anguish at having to withhold information that I knew would be vital to the case, but also due to the age of the young lady. She had been a pretty little thing, sweet and well-meaning. To think of her alone at night with that horrible man disgusted me.

I was more quiet than usual, and when we took a break for afternoon tea, Poirot remarked upon it. "You are pale, _mon ami_ ," he said gently.

"It's this case, Poirot," I replied as honestly as I could. "She did not have to die. She could have said something – whatever it was." I was aware of the hypocrisy of my statement, but I doubted that what she had done had been illegal.

"You have the kind heart for the young ladies," Poirot said softly. He sighed and added, "In this I agree with you. She is deserving of our sympathy and our assistance, _mon ami_. She deserves justice."

I was aware that he was trying to draw my attention to the case and away from my brooding, but instead they produced in my mind a solution that would either solve our problems or result in his arrest (and consequently my own). Either way we would be free of Warren.

"Yes," I said, my voice reflecting my increased confidence. I gazed into Poirot's eyes, and wished that their soft sympathy could be for me as well as her. "She deserves justice."

 

The last theft I had committed was of the Earl of Douglas' cufflinks, which had been made from ancient Egyptian jewels. This theft had occurred before Ms. Richards' death, and so there was some delay before I could deliver them to Warren. In fact I had every intention of returning the cufflinks to the earl's possession (hopefully without revealing myself), but I wished to confront Wilbert Warren at the first possible moment. I wished to end this all. If I lost my reputation, then I deserved it for being such a coward.

"You are late," he said as I entered his flat. "I lost a prospective buyer because of you."

"I was on a case," I replied, angered by his presumptuousness.

"Ah yes, Ms. Richards."

"Indeed, and her case has made me realize what a fool I have been. I am through," I told him. "Publish the photographs and be damned!"

"Now, now, that's not very nice," he replied with false sweetness. I could see him recoil back as a snake does before it strikes. "You wouldn't want anyone to know what you've done for me."

"I don't care," I replied bitterly. "If I hadn't been such a coward, I could have turned you in to the police months ago, and that poor girl would still be alive."

"Poor girl?" he said, turning away to pour himself a drink. "She was just a-" he turned back to me, and stopped because I had my gun trained on him. My intent was to threaten him; I did not wish to contemplate whether I would use it.

"I want the photos and negatives that you have of me, and I want whatever you have against her. I cannot save her life, but I can preserve her reputation."

"I'm not giving you a damn thing," he cried, slamming his drink down. "You are in no position to make demands, you filthy pervert, and neither is that great dead hussy!"

Rarely have I lost my temper, but his callousness combined with his hateful words against an innocent lady made me see red, and I charged him. We both fell to the ground, knocking over the table on which he had put his glass. The glass shattered when it fell to the floor, scattering shards and liquid in all directions. He rolled us, and had me pinned to the floor by the neck, but one solid blow to his windpipe knocked him off of me. We struggled to our knees, and I was trying to get a hold of his arms. His knee connected with a bit of glass, and he cried out, tipping us over. His head crashed down on the corner of the fireplace grate. I could tell the moment when life left his body because I was looking directly into his eyes. I would remember that sight for a long time.

For a moment all I did was kneel there, my hands on his shoulders. I realized then that I was bleeding from a cut on my leg. My trousers were torn in several of places; I would have to throw them out. I ignored the blood in favor of searching for his blackmail evidence. I used his keys to unlock several cupboards, and within one I found neat packages with names on the outside of each. They were alphabetized, and for a moment I thought of Ms. Lemon.

I stoked up the fire and burned the package that had Ms. Richard's name on it; I would wait to burn mine until I returned to my flat. I then set about burning the remaining packages. I looked around the room, but there was nothing I had not touched without my gloves. I retrieved my hat and my gun, and then left his flat, letting the door latch lock behind me.

When I returned to my flat, I burned the photographs. I then took a shower, and spent the rest of the night stretched out on my bed, my sleep broken by strange dreams and a guilty conscience.

 

Wilbert Warren's death was discovered in the early hours of the morning. Inspector Japp had hunted him down, and unfortunately found him a bit too late. I suppose I was lucky that Japp had not found him first or while I was there.

It was with reluctance that I returned to Warren's flat with Japp and Poirot. Warren was in the same position where I had left him.

"Almost nabbed him," Japp said as Poirot and I entered, "but somebody got to him first."

"There was quite the struggle," Poirot said, using his cane to point to the overturned table, the glass, and the smears of blood here and there. "Someone was injured by the glass."

"He's got some glass in him," Japp said, nodding toward the body.

Poirot inspected the body while Japp and I waited patiently. "It looks like it could conceivably be an accident, his death," Poirot said, turning back to Japp and me.

"Yes, that's what I thought, too," Japp replied. He looked a bit surprised perhaps because Poirot and he had come to the same conclusions independent of each other. "We would still like to talk to the man who was present at the time of Warren's death."

"You are sure it was a man?" Poirot asked.

"Pretty sure, unless she was very strong or very lucky."

Poirot nodded. We followed him into the other room where the dockets of blackmail material had been held the night before. Poirot said, "Whoever was here last night was most thorough."

"We've cleared out the grate," Japp replied. "Someone burned a lot paper last night, and we hope that something was spared."

"You wish to know whom this Monsieur Warren blackmailed?" Poirot asked.

Japp paused for a moment, and I sensed his unease. "The law requires we investigate the matter thoroughly," he finally answered. "I want to know who killed this man, not gossip about who committed what social indiscretion."

Poirot seemed relieved by his answer, but whatever he was about to say in response was lost. Poirot cried out, and immediately knelt next to the bureau. He used his handkerchief to pick up whatever he had found.

My heart stood still. It was one of the earl's cufflinks. I must have dropped it in my haste to burn the evidence and leave.

Japp's eyebrows rose at the sight. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Poirot looked quite pleased. " _La preuve_ , Chief Inspector."

Poirot looked at me, and I smiled in what I hope was a convincing manner. "Apparently Monsieur Warren was connected with the recent jewel thefts."

"Do you think that Mr. Warren committed the thefts?" I asked, hoping to draw suspicion on the dead man.

"Perhaps," Poirot said. "Whoever killed Monsieur Warren could also have been responsible for the thefts."

"Do you think that whoever killed him was being blackmailed, too?" Japp said.

Poirot nodded. I felt faint in the knees, and wished that I could leave this place. I had lost too much of myself here.

We returned to the sitting room, and I turned so that I faced away from the body.

"No one heard the noise?" Poirot asked, motioning toward the overturned table and the broken glass.

"This is the sort of place where people ignore fights and mind their own business," Japp said. "We're questioning everyone in the building, but so far anyone who heard the fight locked their doors and turned up their radios."

"They heard no raised voices?" Poirot asked.

"One of them said that they heard Warren's voice once or twice. Whoever his assailant was must have been cool as a cucumber."

"Oh, if only," I thought.

 

(Not from Captain Hastings' personal narrative.)

Later that afternoon, Poirot was deep in contemplation, his attention taken up by both the case and by Hastings' unusual behavior. He was unsure what was bothering his friend, and so far the normally loquacious Hastings had said nothing.

Ms. Lemon entered the room, and Poirot turned to her, relieved to have something to do besides worry about Hastings. "Ms. Lemon," he said, "in your most excellent files could you look up an alias, Wilbert Warren?"

"Of course, M. Poirot," Ms. Lemon replied. She paused. "Have you asked Captain Hastings about him?"

"Captain Hastings? Why should I ask Captain Hastings about him?" Poirot asked, puzzled.

"Because the captain received a letter from him, don't you remember? He received it here in error."

"I remember the letter but not the name of the addresser," Poirot said, a terrible feeling rising within him. Perhaps… but no, that would be beyond belief!

"Oh," Ms. Lemon replied, disconcerted by the look on Poirot's face. "I'll just have a look at the files."

Poirot nodded, his mind already considering the possibilities. Hastings had received a letter here from the murdered blackmailer, and yet had said nothing to Poirot, even as they attended to the scene of the crime. If Hastings had known Warren, surely he would have said something, unless-

 

Poirot left his flat, his expression troubled. He did not wish to believe what the clues revealed, but now that he looked back over the last several months, the facts would explain Hastings' odd behavior: his nervousness, his sleepless appearance, his absences.

Betrayal clawed at his gut, but he would have to ignore that feeling; it would do him no good. He needed to ascertain the truth, and then he would deal with his own feelings.

He went to Hastings' flat. Hastings said that he would be at his club for the afternoon, and Poirot hoped that he had spoken the truth this time. If Hastings were still in his flat, Poirot could easily make up a reason for his presence. He knocked on the door, and no one answered.

It took him little time to pick the lock, and enter Hastings' flat. He was surprised by how plain the flat was. It almost looked as if no one lived there. The only signs of life were a couple of newspapers, a bag of golf clubs in the corner, and the remnants of a cup of tea. He wondered why because Hastings always had ideas for decorating Poirot's flat. Poirot shuddered at the memory of Cedric, the stuffed alligator.

Poirot entered the bedroom, and it too was plain. The bed was a single and covered by a dark blue duvet. Poirot could not stop his smile when he opened the wardrobe and saw it stuffed full of fashionable clothes neatly hung. There was a box shoved in the back of the wardrobe, but it was an old army suitcase and Poirot felt that Hastings would probably not use it for hiding anything. He would inspect it last, if it became necessary to do so.

As he surveyed the room, he opened the nightstand. A bottle of lotion, some old travel brochures, and a watch were held within, but as he started to close it, he realized that the drawer felt odd, somehow unbalanced. He thumped the bottom, and it made a hollow sound. Poirot removed the false bottom.

There the other cufflink sat, waiting to be found.

Poirot closed his eyes, feeling no sense of relief.

 

(Captain Hastings' personal narrative resumes.)

I was in Poirot's sitting room, listening to the sports broadcast while I waited for Poirot to return. Ms. Lemon had already departed for the day, and I was alone. I spent most of my afternoon in Hyde Park, considering how best to get rid of the cufflink I still had in my possession and trying to plan for any difficulties that might arise in my dealings with my friends. I was aware that my behavior had been unusual these past few months, but now that Wilbert Warren was dead, I felt that I had been given a chance to put things right. No longer would I leave myself open to blackmail; if I must remain celibate to stay as I was by Poirot's side, then that was the price I would pay.

I heard the door open, and shut the wireless off. "Poirot?" I said, pleased to see my friend. I heard his overcoat rustle as he hung it up.

He came to stand before me, and I knew that something was wrong because he was silent. He pulled his hand from his pocket, opened his hand, and in his palm were both cufflinks.

I froze, unsure of what I should do. All thoughts of bluff were erased when I looked up at Poirot. His expression was cold and furious; he knew where the other one had been because he had found it in my nightstand.

"What-? How-?" I tried to ask how he had found me out, but I could not speak. Shame and fear robbed me of voice.

Poirot closed his hand sharply, and said, "The clues were all there. I simply refused to believe them, _mon ami_." His voice was sarcastic as he spoke that familiar endearment.

I dropped my head into my hands. "What are you going to do?" I asked, expecting him to say that the Japp and the police were hiding in the next room, ready to arrest me.

"Nothing," he replied sharply, and put the cufflinks back in his pocket. "You will tell me all, Hastings, and I trust that you will not lie to me again."

Each word was felt like a knife stabbed deep into my gut. Throughout this debacle I had done my best to make sure that I spoke no actual lies to him, only misrepresentation or by omitting details. I could not lie to him.

"I was being blackmailed," I said, my hands clasped tightly together. I looked at them as I spoke.

"Why?" Poirot replied. "What could you have done that was so terrible that theft was a satisfactory alternative?"

"I cannot say, Poirot. Please do not force me to. It does not matter now."

Poirot looked as if he were going to demand again that I tell him, and to forestall him I continued my story.

"I received a letter with… convincing evidence, and met Warren as ordered. He knew that I did not have money, so he convinced me that he would take jewelry or other trinkets in lieu of payment."

"And if you did not?" Poirot asked, his gaze never leaving my face.

"He would reveal the evidence, and it would hurt not only me but also my friends."

Poirot looked troubled by my words. He said softly, "Hastings, you must tell me with what evidence he was blackmailing you."

I shook my head. "No, you would hate me even more."

"You do not trust me?" he asked.

"I trust you completely, Poirot, but trust is not the problem."

"I disagree," Poirot said. He then altered his questions, and said, "What happened on the evening of his death?"

"I decided that I could not continue with his blackmail," I replied, leaving out how a desire to retain Poirot's good opinion of me affected my decision. "The girl who killed herself, Poirot, she could be alive now if I had not been such a coward. She had everything to live for."

After a moment's pause, Poirot asked, "And you have none, _mon ami_?", and I was surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

I looked up at him. How I wished that I could tell him the truth! "I would not say that, Poirot, but I have fewer."

"You have friends who care about you a great deal and who have worried about you."

I did not know what to say to that, so I continued my story. "There was a struggle. He knelt on some broken glass, tipped us both over, and hit his head on the brick."

Poirot nodded his understanding, and I hoped that he believed me. "You then searched for the evidence that Mr. Warren possessed, and burned it," Poirot said.

"I did," I replied. "I waited to burn my own until I returned to my flat, but Ms. Richards' I burned first and then the rest one at a time until they were gone."

Poirot stared at me as I spoke, and I felt uncomfortable beneath his seemingly omniscient gaze. "Your conscience, it keeps you awake at night?" he eventually asked.

"Of course," I replied, shuddering as I remembered the sudden limpness of Mr. Warren's body and the extinguishment of the evil light in his eyes. I had seen my share of death in the trenches and I had been present while my men died, but I had never been so close to someone whom I had killed. It had been a jarring experience.

We were silent for a time, and I waited with as much patience as I could muster until Poirot felt ready to speak.

Poirot sighed, and I could see that he had come to no decision. "You must give me time to think, Hastings. This has been _un très grand choc_."

"All has changed," I murmured, and Poirot nodded.

"Should I leave now?" I asked, pathetic in my hope that he would let me stay.

"For now, Hastings. I must have time to exercise the little grey cells."

I smiled slightly, for once delighted to hear about his 'little grey cells'. Perhaps it would be for the last time.

"Of course," I said, standing up. I paused for a moment, and then said, "I had intended to return the cufflinks to the earl's possession. I still wish to."

Poirot nodded, and said, "I shall do so for you."

It was obvious that he no longer trusted me. I looked down at his words, shamed completely. I murmured a 'thank you', collected my coat and hat, and then left Poirot's flat.

 

I felt completely erased as I walked to my flat, as if I no longer existed. My flat was cold and grey when I entered it, but rather than start a fire I sat on my bed and pondered.

I realized how low I felt when food no longer held appeal. Dinner passed, but I was not hungry. Instead, I was consumed with the need to ruminate.

Poirot did not harbor the desire to see me in prison or else he would have sent for Inspector Japp immediately. So many times I watched the same scene in which Poirot gathered the suspects, laid out the points of the case, and then denounced the murderer, and Japp was always around the corner, waiting to arrest the accused. In my case, Poirot had presented the evidence of my crime, and heard my confession, but there had been no Japp present.

I thought about moving to the Argentine. My ranch there was small but prosperous, and it suited me. I wished only for peace now that all hopes of retaining Poirot's regard were crushed. Though I knew it impossible, until tonight I had held out hope that Poirot would come to love me.

I thought about how I would feel living permanently in a foreign country, even one I loved as much as Argentina. I would never been truly happy, would I? Even if I could forget Poirot, I would always remember Robert's betrayal. I could never trust another.

I thought about my Lagonda and having to sell her, if I left; about my other prized possessions: my clothes and my golfing gear; and I thought about Elizabeth Richards and how she no longer had to worry about her reputation. Writing has always comforted me, and so I began to write down all these converging thoughts in an attempt to make sense of the confusion.

 

(Not from Captain Hastings' personal narrative.)

Poirot contemplated Hastings' story as he made preparations for bed. Of course he knew that Hastings was capable of killing someone; he must have done so as a soldier. He also knew without a doubt that Hastings had killed Wilbert Warren in self-defense. Why could Poirot not forgive him?

Poirot knew that he was angry at Hastings' betrayal, but he was also surprised that Hastings had managed to get away with the thefts for so long. Poirot had suspected nothing, and even if he had suspected Hastings, Hastings had left no clues and given nothing away that would have lead Poirot to him. Poirot felt foolish, and he did not like this feeling.

Jealousy was another factor. Poirot did not know for certain, but he suspected the reason for blackmail. Poirot had loved his friend for a long time, perhaps since the first moment they met, but it was obvious that Hastings suspected nothing and did not feel the same way. Poirot considered this state of affairs acceptable when he thought that Hastings was attracted only to _les femmes_ , but if his suspicions were correct, then Hastings did find attractive _les hommes_ but not Poirot.

Poirot eventually fell asleep, but his dreams were troubled and vague. When they settled, he was in the police morgue with Inspector Japp, Ms. Lemon, and Hastings. Hastings smiled at him as he entered, and Poirot could see how different he had looked before Wilbert Warren began terrorizing him. Hastings' eyes had always been kind and a beautiful blue, but in the dream they were still carefree and full of joy. He stood straight and proud - a handsome man, not burdened by an ever present fear of shame and prison.

"Who was she?" Hastings asked Inspector Japp, nodding at the morgue table.

"Elizabeth Richards," Japp replied. "Young lady about to be married. The usual," he replied, addressing his last remark to Poirot.

"What was the reason behind her blackmail?" Poirot asked.

"Social indiscretion," Ms. Lemon said. "She had done nothing wrong."

Hastings now looked scared and forlorn, as he had on that day. Poirot said gently, "You are pale, _mon ami_."

"It's this case, Poirot," Hastings replied, and Poirot could see in every way how deeply troubled Hastings was. "She did not have to die. She could have said something – whatever it was."

Poirot winced at Hastings' words, realizing that Hastings had in his own way asked for guidance and sympathy for his plight. Poirot rested a hand on Hastings' arm. "She is deserving of our sympathy and our assistance, _mon ami_. She deserves justice."

Inspector Japp uncovered the body, and Poirot nearly recoiled when instead of Ms. Roberts, the body revealed was Hastings.

"He knew that I did not have money, so he convinced me that he would take jewelry or other trinkets in lieu of payment," Hastings said, looking at the body on the bed as if it were not his own.

"And if you did not?" Poirot asked, turning away from the terrible sight before him.

"He would reveal the evidence, and it would not only hurt me but also my friends."

Poirot realized suddenly what Hastings had been trying to say. Warren had threatened Poirot's reputation as well - damned by association. Poirot pleaded softly, "Hastings, you must tell me with what evidence he was blackmailing you."

Hastings shook head. "No, you would hate me even more."

"I could never hate you, _mon cher_ ," Poirot said, hearing the tremor of distress in his own voice but not caring in the slightest. "But it pains me deeply that you do not trust me, your friend."

Hastings looked down, and his gaze was so heartbreaking in its sweetness that Poirot could not help but take Hastings' face in his hands.

"I do trust you, Poirot," Hastings said earnestly, "but ask yourself this. 'Has Hastings not trusted before?'"

Poirot sighed softly. "Oh _mon ami_ …" _Bien sûr_! How else could Warren have gotten the damning evidence?

"And now I am alone, Poirot. My honor has been stripped from me."

" _Non_ , Hastings, you remain free."

Hastings smiled, but it was not a happy smile. He stepped back from Poirot's hands, and walked to the feet of the dead Hastings. He bent slightly as if inspecting the body, and then said, "My conscience keeps me awake at night."

"But you killed him in self-defense," Poirot said.

Hastings laughed slightly, a tight and harsh sound. "That is what they said when I shot my first German solder."

"You were protecting others."

"Nonsense, Poirot. I was protecting myself." Hastings thought for a moment, and then added, "Myself and you."

"And me?"

"Yes," Hastings said, and his gaze was what Poirot had often longed to see. It was a look of pure, devoted love. "You have everything to live for."

For several reasons this sentence, a variation of which he remembered Hastings speaking only a few hours ago, evoked a chill within him. Poirot asked, "And you have none, _mon ami_?"

Poirot was alarmed when Hastings sat down on the table with the dead Hastings, whose head lolled to one side – that dear grey head whose hair always promised a hint of curl. "I would not say that, Poirot," Hastings said, and the false cheerfulness frightened him to wakefulness.

"But I have fewer," Poirot heard as he sat up in bed. Hastings! He had to find Hastings right away!

 

(Captain Hastings' personal narrative resumes.)

When I stopped writing, it was nearly three in the morning, and I was no closer to removing myself from the black depression which enveloped me. I decided that a little air would do me some good.

I walked for what felt like ages, not caring where I went but wanting to go somewhere. I found myself on the bridge where Elizabeth Richards had been last seen before she died. I looked at the dark depths, and shivered.

It took me a few moments before I realized that I was hearing my name called. It sounded like Poirot, and I was confused. Why would he be here? Obviously I was imagining things. But I was not imagining the hand that grabbed my belt roughly from behind or the breath hot against my cold cheek.

"Hastings!" Poirot hissed. " _Qu'est-ce que vous faites_?"

I looked at him in confusion. "Just walking, Poirot," I replied, wondering why he was so upset with me this time.

"Why here?" he asked, his eyes frightful in their power.

"This is where she jumped," I said. At his confused look I added, "Elizabeth Richards," because it seemed as if he had forgotten. I looked out at the Thames and said, "Poor girl."

"Hastings," Poirot replied after a moment of silence, "you must come with me."

"I wish to walk some more," I protested, although I was just then becoming aware of how cold I was.

"You can walk later, _mon ami_. Come." He took my arm, and led me to the waiting taxi.

"No," I replied mournfully, "not your friend anymore."

Poirot's hand tightened on my arm, but he said nothing in response. I followed him into the taxi. "How did you find me?" I asked.

I could not interpret the look on his face. "A dream woke me. I felt a great fear that I could not explain. I went to your flat, but you were gone. Your writing, however, gave me a clue as to where you would be." He murmured quietly, "And thankfully my little grey cells did not deceive me."

Once in Poirot's flat, he directed me to sit down and then a few minutes later put a hot drink and a plate of food in my hands. As I sipped my tea and ate, I heard him moving various things in his bedroom, and wondered what he was doing.

My question was answered when he brought out a tailor's box. I opened it to discover a fine pair of dark purple pajamas made of soft silk. I looked up at him when he said, "Your Christmas gift, Hastings. I am giving them to you now because you are staying here for the rest of tonight."

"Thank you, Poirot," I said, absently stroking the fabric with my fingers. "But I am perfectly capable of returning to my flat."

" _Non, mon ami_ , not tonight. When you have finished eating, change into them."

I did as he commanded, fully expecting to sleep in the other bedroom or the settee, but Poirot took my elbow and led me to his room.

"Poirot-"

"You will sleep here tonight," he said succinctly.

"But-," I was scandalized by his words and also a little frightened. What if I gave myself away?

"I cannot sleep for worry, Hastings," Poirot said, his voice sharp and cutting, as it often was when he was frustrated with me. "With you here I can ensure that you do not wander off."

"I am not a child," I said, hurt that he would think me unable to take care of myself.

Poirot pointed his finger at the other side of his bed and made a Gallic noise of impatience and frustration, something of a cross between 'pah' and 'fah'.

I conceded, and raising my chin I made every effort to keep what little remained of my dignity. I was determined not to enjoy lying in Poirot's bed, and ignored the flutter in my stomach. I faced away from him as I settled into the soft bedclothes, and heaved a sigh of impatience. His scent surrounded me, and his bed was exceedingly comfortable. I fell asleep within minutes.

 

I woke the next day with a groggy feeling that told me I had slept well past my usual hour of waking, perhaps even into the afternoon. I had rolled into Poirot's spot on the bed, and was currently cuddling his pillow. I stretched my body, feeling last night's perambulations in my legs, and released his pillow.

When I sat up, I noticed one of my suits – a medium grey color – hanging on a hook inside of the door as well as a small valise on the chair. Poirot had gone to my apartment and retrieved some of my things. It was obvious that he did not wish for me to leave, and a note on the valise said as much.

I showered and dressed. My watch informed me that it was past lunch, so I rummaged through the kitchen for something to eat.

Poirot arrived soon after I had finished eating. I was carefully washing his china when he entered the kitchen, and when I saw him, I smiled and handed him the plate for inspection. He smiled and handed it back with a nod of approval. Once I was done, we sat down at the kitchen table, and Poirot handed to me the latest edition of the newspaper.

The headline was as follows: Earl's Egyptian Cufflinks Returned; Police Baffled. I glanced at Poirot, and read on. The cufflinks had been returned via the post. No clues, no fingerprints, no knowledge of the thief responsible. There was even a small line about how even the famous detective Hercule Poirot was unable to solve the mystery.

I looked at Poirot, uncertain as to how he would react to that last sentence. He merely shrugged, and said, "Only for you, Hastings."

All I could do was blink at him with my mouth open. "I say," I said, stumped.

 

We could not converse more on the subject because of Ms. Lemon's presence. She seemed relieved that I was one more at Poirot's side, and she even made me some tea when she made Poirot's. I thanked her when she gave me the cup, and she looked at me sternly.

"Are you feeling more yourself, Captain Hastings?" she said, inspecting me closely. "No more nonsense?"

I could not help but smile at her words. "Nonsense? Me?"

She gave me a knowing look, and said, "You are feeling better."

Poirot looked on in amusement as Ms. Lemon returned to her office and I to my paper.

 

Poirot and I went out that night to one of our favorite restaurants in Soho. I was grateful for this return to normality, but I would not be at complete ease until Poirot and I finished our discussion.

We returned to Poirot's flat, and he poured us both a drink before sitting down next to me. After I finished my whisky and soda, I turned to Poirot and said, "What have you decided?"

Poirot gazed at me, and I was relieved to see no suspicion in his brown eyes; however, I was not as comforted by the curiosity I saw.

"Several things, _mon ami_." He paused, and I waited patiently for him to speak. "I must admit, Hastings, that what troubles me most about this case is your lack of trust in me."

I was about to speak, to tell him that I did trust him, but he raised his hand and asked me for silence.

"I do not dismiss your reasons why, my friend, because at least one of the reasons is clear. You had been betrayed by someone I believe you trusted with some surety."

I nodded, still feeling the sting of that betrayal. I hoped that Poirot would not ask for details because I was unsure how to describe any aspect of it without giving myself away. Of course, I need not have worried about my words giving me away; Poirot somehow always knew.

"The man who betrayed you-," Poirot said, and I inhaled sharply. Fear took hold of me, the sort which I had not felt in many years. My hands trembled in my lap.

Poirot shook his head. " _Non_ , do not look like the scared rabbit, Hastings. It does not suit you."

I looked at him resentfully, but calmed a little when I saw his sympathetic expression.

"The man who betrayed you," Poirot continued, "had you known him for a long time?"

"Nearly two years," I replied.

"And his evidence?"

I flushed with embarrassment. "Photographs."

Poirot's head tilted slightly, and I reddened further. "You were an unknown study, yes?"

"Yes," I said with a harsh laugh. "He gave them to Warren because he had no money and Warren demanded something."

I stood to refill my whiskey. Poirot was silent until I returned, and then he said, "This must not happen again, Hastings. I do not think that you will be so lucky a second time."

I shook my head, and answered, "I know, Poirot. I have already decided not to engage in future liaisons. It would be too dangerous."

Poirot looked concerned, and said, "Will you not be lonely, _mon ami_?"

"Not as long-," I nearly said 'as I am with you', but I stopped myself. "No, no more lonely than I was before."

Poirot's expression changed ever so slightly, and a sparkle of something pleasant appeared in them. I was confused, however, by what might have caused it.

"Thank you, my friend," Poirot said, suddenly. "Thank you for being honest with me."

I was surprised by his words, and I nearly reached out to show him my gratitude. "I wanted to, Poirot. I wanted to tell you everything."

"I wish that you had, Hastings, but the past is unable to be changed."

We were both silent for a few moments, then I asked, "What gave me away?"

"I asked Ms. Lemon to check her files for Mr. Warren's alias, and she mentioned that you had received a letter from him."

I groaned, and dropped my head to the back of the couch, worried because Ms. Lemon surely had an inkling of what had happened. When I looked over at Poirot, his attention was on my neck. "I then began to reconstruct the case backwards. Most important was that you never mentioned you knew him, even when we were standing in his apartment."

I swallowed hard, my next question very difficult for me to say. "And his death? When did you begin to suspect me?"

"When I realized that you had told me nothing about your familiarity with Mr. Warren and later when I discovered the second cufflink in your flat. However, I knew that his death was self-defense."

"How did you know?" I asked.

"Because I know you, Hastings, and because I believed you when you confessed."

"How do you know that what I said was true?" I asked. "Perhaps I murdered him in cold blood."

"I know that it is possible for you to steal, _mon ami_ , because I have asked you to assist me in such an event before, if you will recall. However, I know that you possess a beautiful and honest nature, and thus you are incapable of the cold-blooded murder."

"But-" I started to protest. Poirot raised his hand and asked me for silence.

"I had another reason to believe you, Hastings."

Poirot paused for a moment, and then in answer to my question he put his left hand on my throat, his thumb over a shadowed spot near my windpipe and his fingers curved against my throat and over my collar where I knew a few other bruises lay. My breath caught, and for a brief moment I felt fearful, but I knew that Poirot would not hurt me, and so I relaxed. We stared at each other, and I am not sure what Poirot saw in my face, but his eyes softened with affection. I felt a familiar heaviness in my body, and hoped that he would release me soon or else he would know before too long what his touch did to my body.

"I realized last night what that bruise on your neck was, Hastings. It is very faint, but distinctive."

"I put ice on it as soon as I returned to my flat," I replied, "to keep the bruising down."

Poirot nodded and drew his hand away, his fingers sliding against my skin. I held back a shiver of pleasure at his touch, but a sigh escaped me. I hoped that he would interpret that as a sigh of relief and not of enjoyment.

"He was the cause of so many unnecessary deaths. That I regret his death was at your hands, _mon ami_ , I do not deny, but I cannot regret that he is no longer able to terrorize others."

I blinked back sudden tears, relieved beyond measure by his words. He made a soothing noise, and stroked my shoulder. Normally I might feel uncomfortable, but tonight I welcomed the reassuring touch.

I waited to speak until I had calmed myself, not wishing to become so emotional in front of Poirot. "Have you decided anything else?" I asked, recalling that he said that he had decided several things.

Poirot nodded, and lowered his hand from my shoulder.

"I have considered why I was so unable to forgive you at first, Hastings."

"Because I deceived you?" I asked, uncomfortable but willing to discuss my behavior.

" _Non_ ," Poirot replied. "Because I looked a fool and did not see what was plain under my nose."

"But you were never supposed to discover what I had done, Poirot. I did not intend to make you look like a fool."

Poirot's dark eyes examined me closely as he said, "Then you did not feel for a moment proud that you had tricked me?"

I felt a keen embarrassment because I had in the depths of my soul felt pride at having successfully deceived my friend after so long spent as his mental inferior.

"It is understandable, _mon ami_. I cannot say that I approve, but I will bow to your excellent performance. I even feel pride that you learned so much from me, yes?"

I smiled at that, amused by Poirot's arrogance. I could not be angry, however, because he was correct.

Poirot looked uncomfortable as he continued, "You were honest with me, Hastings, and so I shall return the trust. The other reason why I was so reluctant to forgive was my jealousy."

I was confused, and said, "Jealousy?"

"Yes, I was quite jealous."

"Why?" I asked, when he seemed unwilling to continue.

"You are attracted to _les hommes_ , yes?"

I blushed, "Yes."

Poirot looked away, and said, "But not to Poirot?"

It took me a moment to realize what he wished to convey. "I say," I said softly. "You don't mean to tell me-"

Poirot looked at me, his gaze proud but weary. "Yes, Hastings."

"Good lord," I said, still stunned. So many years wasted when what I wished for most was within reach. "May I ask how long?"

Poirot sighed softly, and said, " _Depuis longtemps_."

He looked so defeated that I had to put his mind at ease. "Since Styles?" I asked.

At Poirot's nod, I said as steadily as I could, "For me as well. I think it was when you greeted me so profusely that first time at the shop."

Poirot looked sharply at me. The urgency in his eyes made my heart beat faster with excitement. I never thought that I would see such a light in his eyes when he looked at me. "You are speaking the truth, Hastings? You are not humoring an old man?"

"The absolute truth, Poirot," I replied, taking his hand between both of mine. "I never knew you felt as you did."

"And I did not think that you could hide from me, _mon ami_ , which is why I never suspected your love." Poirot smiled at me, and reached up his other hand to stroke my cheek. "You do love me, yes?"

"I love you," I replied as I moved closer to him on the couch.

His hand on my cheek drew me closer, and as our lips brushed against each other he murmured, "Je vous aime."

Poirot kissed with a single-minded determination at which I marveled later once I remembered how to think. I had never been kissed as if I were the only person who could ease the hunger. I responded in kind, my hands stroking his back and shoulders. His broad hands stroked my back and stomach underneath my sweater vest, and I moved eagerly into his touches.

Somehow we found ourselves prone on the settee, Poirot above me, our hips rocking together as our kisses became desperate and biting. I groaned in disappointment as Poirot sat up, but he put a hand on my chest, indicating that I should remain where I was.

"I am going to make love to you here, Hastings, but in order to do so I need to retrieve something."

"Here?" I said, shocked, yes, but also more aroused than I had been in quite some time.

" _Oui_ , Hastings. Here. Now, do not move."

While he was gone, I quickly removed my shoes and socks, not wanting them to get in the way. Poirot returned with a jar in his hand, and I wiggled my toes at him. "I moved," I said, teasing him.

Poirot shook his head, and I was pleased by the delight in his eyes. He took my hand, and pulled me to a sitting position. As we kissed, we removed each other's clothes, and let each article drop to the floor in a careless heap. Between kisses we whispered of our love and desire for each other. I might have blushed at his colorful language, but the passion burning between us made me bold, and I told him how much I needed him and in what way.

Soon I had my wish, and I was on my hands and knees on the settee, pushing back as Poirot slipped a finger within my body. I groaned, and looked back at him, wishing that he would hurry. He took a firm hold of my hip with his other hand, and I was secretly thrilled by his control.

"Calm yourself, _mon ami_ ," he said, and I tried my best to do as he bid. Poirot murmured his approval, and continued to prepare me, which was itself most enjoyable.

I trembled as Poirot eventually shifted and I felt his erection brush against my thigh. "You are ready, Hastings?" he asked, kissing my back tenderly.

"Most than ready," I replied.

We both moaned as he pushed into me, his movements gentle but determined. As he waited for me to become accustomed to his presence, he stroked my back and sides. He murmured almost as if in meditation, "So many times I've observed you on the settee, Hastings. Innocent Hastings reading the paper or listening to me discuss a case. So many time I wished to make love to you right here - to my innocent Hastings… who is certainly not innocent."

I moaned softly as his salacious words, aroused by the idea of Poirot fantasizing about me. "How did you make love to me?" I asked, my breath catching as he began to thrust into me.

"Sometimes slow and with care… I had to coax you to yield. Other times fast when my Hastings knew exactly what to do."

"And what did your – oh! – your Hastings know how to do?"

"He knew how to use his pretty mouth."

I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing all the things I wished to do to him. "My pretty mouth knows how to do a lot," I replied, my hands reaching behind me to caress his thighs, urging him faster.

He positioned me so that we were half-kneeling, half-sitting, and began to thrust harder. I cried out at each thrust, desperately hoping that the neighbors could not hear me but unable to contain myself.

I turned my head so that I could watch Poirot's expression as he gave pleasure to us both. His eyes were so dark and beautiful, and I found myself staring into them. I felt boneless, exhilarated, and I wished that this moment would never end. I began to rock back against Poirot, and smiled when I heard him cry out.

Poirot's thrusts became more desperate and forceful, and I suspected he was close. I began to stroke myself, almost unable to tolerate the overwhelming pleasure. I almost felt as if I were losing myself, but I knew that Poirot would not abandon me in this moment. I trusted him completely.

"Please, love," I whispered, desperate to peak but wishing to wait for him.

"Almost, _mon amour_ ," he whispered.

"Think of my pretty mouth," I replied.

He cried out at my words, and I felt him peak within me. I moaned, allowing myself the same pleasure. I leaned back against him, nearly mindless from the pleasure. Eventually Poirot laid us out on the settee. There was not much room for two grown men, and so I happily laid half on top of Poirot.

I was content not to move or speak, and occupied myself with a lazy exploration of Poirot's chest. Poirot's eyes were closed, and for a moment I thought he was asleep. He must have felt my regard because he opened his eyes.

" _Mon cher_ Hastings," he murmured, and this time I did blush at his words. He laughed, and kissed my forehead. "My Hastings has not changed," he added, cuddling me close.

I thought about my fears of the past few months, and I asked hesitantly, "Nothing has changed then, Poirot?"

Poirot knew to what I referred, and he offered his reassurance. "Only for the better," he said.

I expected him to continue, and was proven right when he added, "Perhaps you will consider moving back in with Poirot?"

I thought about my empty apartment and how I had not bothered to fill it with trinkets or souvenirs. Perhaps my subconscious had been waiting for just this opportunity.

"Gladly," I replied.

 _Fin_

**Author's Note:**

>  _La preuve_ \- the proof, evidence  
>  _un très grand choc_ \- a very great shock  
>  _Bien sûr_ \- Of course  
>  _Qu'est-ce que vous faites_? - What are you doing?  
>  _Depuis longtemps_ – for a long time


End file.
